


The Wedding

by nigiyakapepper



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Drama, F/M, Post-Apocalyptic Communities and Tribes, Traditions, Weddings, elements of Horizon Zero Dawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigiyakapepper/pseuds/nigiyakapepper
Summary: Zarkon's arms are large and strong from throwing the spear. His hands are rough, warm, and kind. He will teach the little ones to chop wood, build weapons, swim, and fight.But seven decaphoebs is too long to wait for an heir, and he is wasted on her.





	The Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> I take zero credit for this. I'm serious. If any of you figure out what the _**actual other AU**_ is, I'll be very happy. Also very embarrassed.

Zarkon lifts himself onto the threshold with practiced ease. The smooth, worn wood creaks under his weight. He hesitates in front of the leathery cloth that covers the entrance of their home, before pushing it aside and slipping in.

The room is dark, deceptively empty had it not been for her distinct presence in the corner. His heart twists, in pity, in gratification, that this would tear her from her work. In the next moment, he hates himself for the thought.

"I am sorry—"

"Do not speak."

And Zarkon doesn't. Her voice is cold and flat, barely heard over the muffled beats of drums and song floating through the floorboards. She does not know how long she has sat there hearing them. Vargas, quintants, movements. Their vibrations have sunk under her skin, numbing her body.

Zarkon crouches, and shuffles toward the stove. He stirs the powdery pieces of coal with his hand, and blows under them. Once they glow a faint orange, he adds kindling in increments. The room brightens.

He studies her. Dark smudges under her eyes, like bruises, belying sleepless nights are not foreign to either of them, but the puffy redness is. Stark as the markings of Altea on her cheekbones. The proud line of her spine is bent, half of her body propped up by one arm braced upon the floor, while the rest is slumped in exhaustion. The ornate script of their vows is spilled in Galran across her breast, as black as when they had been tattooed on their wedding day.

"You are not at the dance."

It is not an admonition, but a statement of fact, perhaps a plea, which Zarkon knows is the wrong thing to say, because she bristles and does not reply.

"Come to the dance," he says. "If..." there is a chill in his chest, despite the fire. "If you do not hate me for this, come to the dance." The chill grows. "Another man will see you. He will like your dancing and ask to marry you. You will be luckier with him than you were with me—"

"I do not want another man," she says sharply. "I do not want any other man."

Zarkon softens. "You know as well as I do that I do not want another woman either, don't you?"

She does not speak.

"You know that, Honerva, don't you?"

"I do."

"But for the sake of the tribe, I must do this."

She knows that too. Zarkon might not be the one to lead the Galra tribe, but he is a decorated warrior. He has cleared their lands of Robeasts and forged friendships with other tribes. He has sealed a brotherhood with Altea, known for engineering rather than combat, with their marriage. Together, he and Honerva have rebuilt the forest village, and carved farmland from the sides of mountains. From the metal remains of Robeasts, they studied the past, and replicated what life would have been before the Second Destruction.

His arms are large and strong from throwing the spear. His hands are rough, warm, and kind. He will teach the little ones to chop wood, build weapons, swim, and fight. But seven decaphoebs is too long to wait for an heir, and he is wasted on her.

"You cannot blame me. I have been a good husband to you."

"Neither can you blame me," Honerva says. The fire reflects in her eyes, bright with unshed tears.

"No," Zarkon moves closer to her, his voice low. "You have been very good to me. I have nothing to say against you. Only that we should have had a child. We have waited too long. We must dance again before it is too late for both of us."

"You know I have done what I can. I have prayed to Daibazaal many times. I have drank Nunvill and journeyed to the Weblum to ring the scaultrite bells."

He knows. He had journeyed with her for four moons, braving the dangers of the metal beasts, harsh winds, and steep cliffs. One slip would have meant death.

"Remember when you came home from a hunt and got angry with me because I sacrificed our kaltenecker without your permission? I did it to appease Daibazaal. I want to have a child as much as you do."

"Daibazaal does not see it fit for us to have one," Zarkon says. He stokes the fire by moving a piece of wood. The flame pops and crackles. The drums echo his heartbeat.

Honerva worries at a knot on the rug beneath them. It was a beautiful piece from her dowry with a complicated pattern of lions. The dyes have not faded despite its age.

Zarkon stands and pads to the corner of their home where the water jars stand. Honerva had filled them from the river this morning. He picks up the gourd dipper hanging from the wall and scoops a cupful to drink. He scoops another and returns to Honerva's side, placing it beside her.

"I came home because I could not find you among the dancers," he says. "I am not forcing you to come, if you do not want to join my wedding ceremony..."

Honerva's fingers twitch beside the cup.

"I just want to say that Jaga...Jaga cannot be as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting wheat, not as skillful in making pots. She does not have your courage to accompany the men on hunts, nor the brilliance to take the Robeasts apart. You are one of the best wives in all of Galra and Altea."

"Not that that has done me any good," Honerva smiles wryly and leans closer to him.

Zarkon moves the untouched cup to one side, and takes her face in his hands. She does not meet his gaze, and when he gently strokes her cheek with his thumb, her lip trembles. This is the last time he can behold her beauty. Tomorrow, she will be returned to her family, to her sister Fala, her husband Alfor, and their child, Allura, mocked by what she cannot have.

She moves away from his touch, and he lets go.

"This house is yours," Zarkon says. "I built it for you. Live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Jaga."

"I have no need for a house. I will return to my own." Honerva's gaze is downcast. Her hand has returned to worrying the rug. "My parents are old and will need help planting the wheat and grinding it for bread."

"I give you the fields I have dug out in the north side during our first phoeb of marriage. We have made them rich together. They are yours."

"I have no use for any field."

Zarkon's heart twists further. He looks at her, then turns away. They are silent. They stay silent for a long while.

"Go back to the dance," says Honerva, voice raw. "You cannot stay here. The elders will look for you, and Jaga will feel bad. Go."

"Only if you come and dance—for one last time. For me."

"I cannot—"

"Honerva," Zarkon says gently. He aches to reach for her but doesn't. "Honerva, know that I did this because we need a child. The Robeasts continue to devour our people. We need warriors, and caretakers—"

Her voice rises like a tide, "I _know!_ " And subsides. "I know. I...I will pray that Daibazaal blesses you and Jaga." She chokes out the last words and shakes her head, tears finally falling as her body heaves with the force of her sobs.

Honerva thinks of the decaphoebs that have passed, of the first time Alfor introduced Zarkon to her. They had killed a great Robeast with the force of Voltron and she had been examining its mangled parts.

 _"They are not alive, but are powered by ever-lasting energy! Is that not incredible?"_ she had whirled around to face him, and Alfor had laughed at the expression on Zarkon's face.

She thinks of the time Zarkon threw his spear onto the steps of her father's house as a sign of his desire to marry her, of the time she shadowed him during his hunts and wrangled the metal beasts with rope. They had rested on the mountainside and drank from clear streams. They had forged the ore and made tools and weapons.

She gazes at Zarkon's face, its lines and shadows made harsh by the firelight. He is pure-hearted, and earnest, if a bit slow on humorous uptake, which endears him to her. He is a good leader to his fellows, and values the lives of his warriors as much as he does his own. He upholds the traditions of the tribe, but knows the importance of expanding knowledge and technological advancement—of Honerva's work, and she loves him all the more for it. He has strength and intelligence yet, and for those she has lost him.

Honerva curls in on herself and weeps until her forehead aches. Zarkon takes her into his arms.

"Husband, I have been of no use to you—"

"Don't—"

"I will cast myself from the tribe—"

"—you will be killed—"

"Or cease to live—"

" _Honerva._ "

"I will not see you with another." She is wrecked with sobs. "I do not care about the house, or the fields. I want to stay with you."

"Honerva," Zarkon says again, his voice rough from her sorrow. "You will be fruitless—"

"I do not care—"

"—then do you not care about me?" Zarkon asks quietly and she stills, hiccuping softly. "My name cannot live on in our tribe. No one will have the fields we have carved on the mountainside. No one will come after me."

Honerva takes a shuddering breath. "If...if this fails a second time..." She closes her eyes against the horror of the thought.

Zarkon pulls her closer. "If I fail, I will return to you. We shall leave the tribe together, live and die as outcasts."

The drums and song rise up from the floorboards and echo in the walls, loud and imperative.

"Let me keep my ring," Honerva whispers against his neck. "Zarkon, let me keep my ring."

"Keep it," he says, touching his lips to her wet cheek. "It is yours." His grandmother had given it to him to give to Honerva. It comes from a time before the Second Destruction, hammered platinum inlaid with precious stones. "It is worth twenty fields."

"I will keep them because it is proof of your love for me," she says. "I love you. I love you but I have nothing to give."

Zarkon pulls her in tight and crushes his face against her shoulder. A deep ache gnaws at his chest and he pants against it, like a boy bracing his tears against pain. He digs his hands into her silvery hair and she clings to him, weeping renewed. Beneath their home, they hear the calls of their tribesmen.

"They are looking for you."

"I am in no hurry."

"The elders will scold you."

"I will not leave until you tell me this is all right with you."

"This is all right with me." It is not.

He releases her and cups her face once more. This time she meets his eyes. "I do this for the sake of the tribe."

"I know."

He turns to leave—

"Zarkon!"

—and is arrested by Honerva's call. He closes his eyes and balls his hands into fists. He cannot face her. He knows his resolve will smash like a helpless wave upon the rocks if he does. Who made it such that a man was not one if he had no child? Could they not prove their worth to the tribe through different ways? Have they not yet done so? Won't there be other children? Other warriors to train? He knows his name will not be woven into legend or song. He knows whatever lies beyond their door cannot hope to match what he will leave behind.

"The ring!"

Zarkon turns and crosses the room, past Honerva's workspace cluttered with metal parts and paper notes, to a chest where they keep their worldly possessions—Zarkon's bayard, heads for spears, his father's ancient battle helmet, Altean brass weighing scales, curved glass that magnifies what the viewer sees, and Honerva's ring. He takes the ring from its carefully folded cloth and slips it onto Honerva's finger.

She sees his hands shake and her gaze flies to his face. He still has not looked at her since she called. There are more voices now, wondering where he went.

He stares and stares at something she cannot see, past their joined hands, past the walls of their home, past the village and its forest, past the mountains and fields.

"Take your pack," Zarkon says, such a quiet whisper that Honerva almost misses it. But she does not, and disbelief fires wildly up her body, her heartbeat pounding to the rhythm of the dance below their feet.

Her husband looks at her, finally _sees_ her, and he looks more terrified than she ever remembers. Her gaze hardens. She squeezes his hands in hers, and the gesture seems to return Zarkon to himself.

He swallows.

"Take only what is essential."

They make quick work of it. Honerva gathers her notes and leaves the rest in a neat pile on their worktable. Zarkon prepares to take as much food and water as they can carry. He packs the contents of their chest and his best spear. They split the weight between them and without a backward glance, clamber out the smoke hole and into the branches of the massive tree that has held the only home they've ever known.

They scramble onto the mountain and do not stop until moonlight is what illuminates their path. From their vantage point, they can see the Galra village, the lights in houses the size of their fingertips. They can no longer hear drums, and remnants of the wedding fire spiral upwards in a black cloud against the deep blue of a young evening. They have to keep moving, and find somewhere safe they can stop for the night.

They reach the wheat fields, golden stalks moving as one like waves upon the sea. Their defiance still boils in their blood, and Zarkon laughs, loud and booming like Honerva has not heard in a long time. She laughs with him, drawing all the breath from her lungs in relief. They close the space between them, remnants of laughter upon their lips as Zarkon presses his forehead against his beloved's. They have done this before. They will live.

The mountain breeze makes the wheat dance all around them.

**END**


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